


At Night I Dream of Fire

by general_ginger



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Jack wasn't meant to be so....kinda abusive, M/M, Mention of torture, Triskelion incident, Unhealthy Relationships, brief mention of Sitwell, brief mention of Westfahl, creepy Jack Rollins, this did not turn out as planned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 03:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16400183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/general_ginger/pseuds/general_ginger
Summary: Rumlow has nightmares of the Triskelion incident weeks before it happens, but refuses to tell his not-so-secret boyfriend about them.





	At Night I Dream of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T for cussing, mention of torture and hints of a relationship that is DEFINITELY NOT HEALTHY IN REALITY. Creepy Jack is creepy. Not beta-read.

Rumlow startles awake with a layer of sweat on his skin, chest heaving, throat raw as if smoke was still filling his lungs. Next to him, Rollins stirs, not quite asleep anymore yet not awake either, disturbed by the sudden movement on the other side of the bed. For a moment Brock stares at him, his eyes adjusting to the muted light of the lamp on the porch in front of the window, squinting until he is certain that _this_ is real, that he is safe in their shared bedroom with his SIC breathing softly; that he isn’t buried under suffocating steel and concrete and fire and _pain_. The bed creaks quietly when he shifts and turns, setting his naked feet onto the wooden floorboards, curling his toes as if to inspect whether those are real, too.

When Rollins opens his eyes and notices something amiss, the other side of the bed is already cooling.

* * *

 

Rollins does not confront his partner until after dinner of the same day, when Rumlow has his hands in dirty dishwater and no way out because he is basically crowded into the corner of the small kitchenette in his apartment, blocked from running by the bulk of his SIC who methodically dries and stacks the clean dishes next to him.

“Wasn’t the first time you had that kind of nightmare lately.” It is not a question but also not quite a statement; more of a silent prompt for Rumlow to talk, and an even quieter promise of _I’m here, I’ll see this through with you._ But the STRIKE commander is cocky and proud, flaunting and ruffling his feathers even in private, when there is no need to because Rollins can see through his façade anyway; so the dismissive shrug comes hardly as a surprise. “It’s just a nightmare. With all the shit we see at work—all of us have had them, even on missions, you know that. Remember that time Westfahl woke up with a shriek and you almost shot him because he interrupted your beauty sleep?” Had Rollins not be certain that there is something amiss before, he would be now; with how pathetically _bad_ the shorter man is at lying to his face, it is astonishing that he has managed to keep both their affiliation with HYDRA _and_ their relationship a secret so far. (Johnson must have spotted something, though, if her open leering at them in the locker room is any hint.)

Rollins does not bother suppressing his annoyed huff, but he does not press the matter any further. When Rumlow wants to talk, he’ll come around. He always does at some point.

Except, this time, he does not.

* * *

It takes another two weeks of getting jerked from sleep by a scream or waking to an empty bed until Rollins finally snaps. They specifically decided to spend the two days off they managed to hassle out of command back at his house, with no neighbours in a four mile radius, both to give them a little time to themselves and because the thin walls of Rumlow’s shitty apartment did nothing to contain the noises he made during those nights—leading to a noise complaint by an overly suspicious tenant who looked like he might call the police on them. The moment he kicks the door shut behind them and drops his duffle bag, he grabs Rumlow by the lapels of his leather jacket, slamming him against the wall next to the door with enough force to rattle the framed picture over the shoe rack. In any other given situation, the commander might have found that display of aggression and strength arousing, but the downright murderous gaze—hard as steel and cutting as deep as a knife, dissecting him—quenches any idea of a heated make-out session. It is an expression he has seen on Rollins’ face numerous times, but rarely directed at him; an expression that promises pain and suffering and all the nasty things required to draw answers from an unwilling victim. The expression that he wears when pulling nails and teeth and _skin_ from a subject during interrogation. He shivers, and that gaze only hardens, pinning him more efficiently than the large hands on his jacket.

“You are going to talk to me. _Now._ Because if you don’t, I will draw those words from you, and you will not enjoy that _a single bit_.” Rollins’ voice sounds almost detached, betraying no anger or impatience, practically devoid of any emotion at all, but that does nothing to disguise the threat—or rather, promise—of his words. Nevertheless, Rumlow snarls right back at him—attempts to—because, relationship or not, this is not an acceptable way to talk to him, especially not out of bedroom, and because he is just _so fucking tired_ that he wants nothing more than to collapse on the couch. “Get _off_ me, you fuckin’ prick—what do you even think you’re doing, treatin’ your CO like this?!”

The pressure vanishes for a moment as Rollins lets go of him and levels him with a calculating gaze instead, but it brings no relief—he is not out of this yet, it is unlike him to give up that easily—and Rumlow is correct; before he can comprehend what is happening, he is manhandled down the hallway and into the dim living room, banging his elbow on the doorframe as he attempts to break free, and shoved down into the armchair that Rollins often spends their evenings here reading over a glass of Scotch. Rumlow’s back protests at the violent treatment—he isn’t thirty anymore, for fuck’s sake—but this time he is wise enough to keep his mouth shut, squinting at Rollins stomping around the room for the light switch, bathing them in the shine of a lamp that usually is warm on the eyes, but now feels rather cold and menacing. He stays down, curling his fingers against the cushioned armrests in anticipation, his gaze following until the Australian looms over him again, standing so the lamp illuminates Rumlow’s stubbled cheeks and red-rimmed eyes.

“This is for your own good,” he says, leaning down to cup his jaw, dragging the calloused pad of his thumb over the bone; and _fuck,_ the last time the commander was so afraid for his life and well-being was when he had to share a crappy safe house with the Asset, with nothing but a stun baton and handgun to keep him at bay. “I just want you to be safe. If you won’t talk to me about what’s wrong with you, how am I to protect you?” It’s handbook brainwashing and Rumlow can easily spot it in any given situation, because he has done it before himself, to new recruits; but it is also terrifyingly effective because this is Rollins, this is the man who has his back in the field and worships his body in the bedroom, and even though the pure _wrongness_ of the whole setup makes him sick, he finds his jaw unclench under those clever fingers. Warm breath ghosts over his face and further to the side, to the shell of his ear, causing the hair at the back of his neck to rise and sweat to bead on his forehead, his body hot and cold at the same time. “It’s alright. I’ve got you. Just talk to me, and you’ll feel _better_.”

The noise he makes at the back of his throat is barely human, makes him sound more like a wounded animal because that’s what he is right now, caged and exhausted and in pain; but if he tells Jack, it will all be over, and he will be able to _rest._ And so he talks.

* * *

 Smoke fills his lungs, but with each violent cough comes the pain, eating through his skins and seeping into his bones like acid. Noise swirls around him in the clouds of ash and dust, mixing with harsh colours of red and orange and a searing _heat_ ; yet when he tries to move his arms to cover his ears from the piercing sound penetrating his eardrums— _sirens, sirens and people screaming_ —he finds them immobile, his legs, too. A weight presses down onto his chest— _concrete and steel and glass and rubble—_ constricting his breath even further until he feels as if his ribcage might cave in, but where his heart should be beating, there is nothing but a gaping hole that threatens to swallow him, drown him in darkness.

**_Jack._ **

* * *

 When he is finished, Rumlow’s throat is as dry as his lips, his voice frayed around the edges like an old piece of parchment. The sun has fully set outside, leaving them in the semi-darkness with the lonely lamp casting light and shadows across the walls. Halfway through the jumble of words Rollins has dropped the murderous act in order to kneel awkwardly over him, carding gentle fingers through his meticulously styled hair to soothe him and ease the pressure building behind his eyes, offering a solid rock for him to cling on so the sensation of recalling his nightmares would not wash him away.

“They’re just dreams,” he rumbles, bending down to press a kiss to Brock’s damp temple, hiding the tenseness in his own jaw. “Nothing more to it. You’re overworked, with Insight coming up and the new recruits on your hands. No wonder your mind is going haywire.” Rumlow stiffens under him briefly, but the hand in his hair lulls him back into the boneless state that he is in ever since he has managed to spill, consequently not putting up a fight when Jack helps him stand to guide him into the bedroom. By the time his SIC manages to pull the boots off his feet, he is already fast asleep.

* * *

 The nightmares don’t stop, but when he wakes from them now, he finds his clammy skin pressed against the reassuring bulk of Rollins’ body.

* * *

 Rumlow re-enters the bedroom, phone in his hand, looking about as unhappy as Rollins feels about the interruption of their already tight sleeping schedule. “What was all this about,” Jack asks, shifting to sit up, thin blanket pooling around his lap. “Apparently Sitwell got himself into some kind of a hostage situation on board the Lemurian Star,” the commander replies, running a hand through the dark nest of sleep-ruffled hair on his head. “They’re expecting us and Rogers to move in and solve the situation.” They exchange an exasperated look as they both, for the umpteenth time, wonder how Agent Sitwell managed to survive thus far.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This did not turn out exactly as I planned in the beginning (I initially wanted to focus a little more on the dreams and uhhh the scene at Jack's house kinda got out of hand). But yeah. Don't hesitate to leave a comment :)
> 
> In case anyone's wondering: The picture that Jack almost knocks to the floor is a photo of their team. Rumlow hung it up there.


End file.
